The path she must now choose might well be strewn with blood.
Chapter Sixteen
Rory watched themessenger’s party out of sight, squinting against the radiance of the afternoon. Having found men suitable to carry his letter to Moira MacBeith, Murgor had presented an argument for making the party more than two or three men.
“A wee show o’ strength,” he suggested, “as she may be mustering. No’ enough to present a threat, but enough to show we are no’ afraid.”
Rory did not fear Moira. He harbored many other emotions toward her, including disdain and impatience. He wanted this over and done.
She would, aye, want her sister back. She would reply with a full capitulation.
Or she might slay the members of his party, if she wanted to provoke him. And if—if she trusted him not to slit Saerla’s throat in return.
Nay, and nay. He would get the response he desired.
And how to fill the time till he received his answer? He should be organizing the men in case Moira’s response was an attack. He should don his armor and gather his weapons.
His back protested the very prospect.
He could go and see Saerla MacBeith first.
The thought appeared whole in his mind. He tried to view it dispassionately, to come up with reasons he should deny the urge. It did not seem an entirely emotionless prospect, nor onedevoid of reason. He had reasons to see her, and reasons to stay away.
She was a valuable prisoner, the best weapon he had to force Moira MacBeith’s hand, and he would do well to make sure of her. When last he’d seen her, she’d been suffering from that wound to the head. Should she once more fall unconscious and die…
It would be a bad, bad outcome. One that started dread in the pit of his stomach. His best weapon, lost.
Yet he’d left her in the care of her sister, who, Leith insisted, possessed considerable skill as a healer. Surely the sister had treated Saerla and made her better.
He could go make sure.
Indeed, he had a right to venture anywhere in this fortress, and the chamber where she dwelt was, after all, his own. He could claim to need something that remained there. If he needed an excuse. Which he did not.
His feet carried him even as the thoughts circled in his mind. The guard, a young man named Donal who looked quite bored, lounged outside the door of the chamber. When he saw Rory, he sprang to attention and brightened.
“Chief. A grand day outside, is it no’?”
And he was stuck here in a windowless corridor guarding the door of a single prisoner.
“I hear we will soon be at war,” the young man continued, not without excitement.
Rory eyed him. “How did ye hear that?”
“Seumas came by. Says MacBeith is mustering for attack.”
“Maybe so, maybe no’. All quiet here?” Rory jerked his head at the door.
“Och, aye. Quiet as the grave.”
That caused Rory a quiver of unease. He jerked his head again. “Off wi’ ye. Send someone else to spell ye.”
“Aye, chief.” The young man ran off without a backward look. Rory stood for a moment eyeing the boards of his own door, wondering how best to go on.
It would be a courtesy to knock. To treat the woman therein with some respect. She was a woman, after all, and a high-status captive.
Accordingly, he raised his knuckles and rapped. “Mistress MacBeith?”
No sound from within.
